that he’d sell his very soul to be able to say to them one last time… now.
Words.
Beneath that light-filtering glass, a UV light glowed softly on the page, and a digital camera with an ultra-low light-sensitive lens and an infrared sensor closely monitored one particular personal ad. There it was halfway down the third column, one rather innocuous little paragraph of faint, slightly smudged newsprint.
The letters in that paragraph quite often flickered in a faint, spectral way. Just enough that if you weren’t looking directly at them your peripheral vision might just catch the subtlest sense of movement. A square inch of newspaper that undulated, shifted, stirred every now and then as if a small ghost lived in the very fibre of the newspaper itself.
It was a square inch of reality in permanent flux. The tiniest portion of the world caught in a perpetual state of undulating change, trapped in the eddies and currents of its own mini time wave.
Today, though, it seemed particularly agitated. Letters fidgeted, blurred, changed. As if it very much had something it wanted to tell Waldstein. The infrared sensor was picking up a temperature shift off the brittle old paper that was a whole tenth of a degree higher than normal. The minutest leakage of energy through the tiniest crack in space-time.
It wants to talk to me.
He studied the data monitor beside the glass case, watched the temperature read-out twitch and shuffle and occasionally spike. Beside it, the low-light image of the printed letters shimmered and danced like ghouls in a graveyard, caught only in glimpses of flitting moonlight.
Waldstein suspected the newly grown, birthed and trained team were struggling to find their feet. That poor old wretch — not Liam now, he’d chosen the name Foster instead. So much rested on his shoulders. And he’d been through so much recently. To have lost his friends in such a horrific way. Then to have also been through the appalling torment of being suddenly, prematurely aged. And then, after all of that, after sending his plea for help through time to the future, to hear back from his ‘creator’ and learn that he was somewhat less than human. Worse still… that he was going to have to fix things up again entirely on his own. To be the fatherlike mentor for a new team.
So much — too much to put on the poor thing. Waldstein’s heart ached for him.
That poor wretch Liam — now Foster — was entirely on his own, effectively running this project himself. He’d had to set up a replacement team, to mentor them, train and ready them for their respective roles, all the while knowing exactly what they were and yet having to go along with this appalling deceit. To lie to them.
Now it seemed, with these flickering letters on the page, there was more bad news coming through from 2001. From Foster.
The heat reading spiked again. Another tenth of a per cent of a degree.
It’s coming.
The letters shimmered and shuffled faintly. And there it was. Ink on paper. No longer shimmering with a desire to change. There it was. Bad news.
… Experienced significant event. Origin time-stamp of contamination 1941. Major displacement effects. Problem narrowly but successfully averted. New recruits performed well under stress. One team member lost. Require new observer immediately — Foster.
Joseph Olivera looked up from his floating data screens. ‘They need a new…?’
‘A new observer, Joseph. They need a new Saleena Vikram.’
Frasier Griggs paled. ‘You mean… send one back?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened, Mr Waldstein?’ asked Joseph.
Waldstein shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. It seems like they’ve had to deal with a major contamination originating from sometime during the Second World War. Something big must have shaken things up for them.’ Waldstein smiled. ‘Their first big test. And it seems they’ve saved mankind.’
‘But one of them’s dead,’ said Griggs.
‘Indeed.’
‘What about the others?’
‘It seems they’re all right, Joseph.’ Waldstein touched a data pad and the air in front of him shimmered with holographic data. He swept the data to one side with his finger, and double-tapped a thumbnail image. It expanded in front of them, a digitized image of the page of newspaper hovering in mid-air. ‘You read it for yourself.’
Joseph and Griggs leaned forward to scrutinize the image more closely. They read it in silence.
‘He won’t be able to grow one back there,’ said Waldstein. ‘The memory needs altering. Which is why we’ll have to do it here and send her back.’
Joseph nodded. Waldstein was, of course, quite right. The other two team members — the Maddy unit and the Liam unit — weren’t ready to know what they were. If Foster was sent a Saleena Vikram unit foetus and started growing it right there in the archway, then the game would be up. He’d need to explain to the other two units exactly what they were.
Clones.
All three of them were designed to work at their best believing themselves to be entirely human. Believing they had real life stories, real loved ones, real memories. It’s what made their purely organic data matrices produce completely human-level decisions. That’s why Joseph hated to call it ‘Organic Artificial Intelligence’. Because it wasn’t artificial intelligence. It was Authentic Intelligence. If their brains — which were no different from any other human brains — truly believed the store of memories in their minds to be genuine then as far as Joseph was concerned, they were real people. Just as real as anyone else. More than mere genetically engineered replicas. Certainly so much more capable of strategic thought than the silicon minds inside the support units.
However, the moment they realized their lives were fabricated, a pack of installed lies; the moment they understood they hadn’t been born to loving mothers, but instead had emerged fully grown from plastic tubes, just like their support units… that was when their decision-making would become compromised. Unreliable.
‘Joseph, start a growth here in the lab,’ said Waldstein. ‘Then we’ll have to send her back. Can you edit her memory to make that work? She can’t suspect she’s a tube-product.’
‘Wait… hang on a minute!’ cut in Griggs. ‘We said no more direct interactions!’
Waldstein waved a hand to silence him. ‘They need an observer. Joseph?’
Joseph nodded. ‘I can s-splice into her existing memory. We have her life-story file, right up to the recruitment event.’ He scratched his chin. ‘I suppose I can graft in some generalized memories of her living in the archway with the other two. Nothing too s-specific, just the general impression that she’s been living in close proximity to Maddy and Liam for some weeks. It’ll be a little foggy for her.’
‘Foggy?’
‘She’d be a little disorientated. Like she’s experienced a kind of mild amnesia. A gap in her memory, as if she’s experienced a mild trauma, concussion, like a blow to the head. There’ll be minor continuity errors she won’t be able to make sense of, but if we deploy her directly after a field refresh or a corrective time wave she and the others may attribute that foggy memory as some side effect of the realignment of the timeline.’ He shrugged. ‘Since they’re newly recruited, I imagine they’ll buy that explanation from Foster. They’ll trust what he tells them.’
Waldstein nodded. ‘Then we should do that.’ He looked at Joseph, placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Be as careful as you can splicing in her memory.’
That didn’t need saying. Sal needed to wake up and find herself returning to the archway, believing nothing more than some time wave must have caught her outside; messed with her head in some small way. If that didn’t work, if she started questioning her reality…? If the team figured out they were a bunch of enhanced support units, meatbots? Then the whole project was over. They’d have to start again from scratch. Delete the old ones and grow a brand-new team. New minds, new memories, new lives.
‘I’ll be very careful, Mr Waldstein. Trust me.’
‘Good.’
Griggs stepped forward and grabbed Waldstein’s arm. ‘Roald… this is really pushing our luck. You know we broadcast our presence every time we open a portal! You know there must be dozens of tachyon-listening stations all over the world. Christ… it was your campaigning that made sure of that. Do you want to be discovered? Do you want that?’
‘It’s an acceptable risk, Frasier.’
